


The Moon Watches

by AgingPhangirl (Madophelia)



Series: Fic Every Day in June 2017 [6]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Artist Phil Lester, Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Poetic, Writer Dan - Freeform, Writer Dan Howell, artist!Phil, fic every day in june 2017, writer!Dan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 21:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11113620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madophelia/pseuds/AgingPhangirl
Summary: The moon is watching through the glass, gazing down on the figures moulded and shaped into something beautiful. It isn’t sure which is which or where one ends and the other begins, but it rather suspects that is the idea.





	The Moon Watches

**Author's Note:**

> June 6 of my Fic Every Day in June 2017 project.
> 
> This one came to me fully formed. I don’t know why.
> 
> Send me prompts on [Tumblr](http://agingphangirl.tumblr.com) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/agingfangirl)

There a studio loft apartment. A slanted wall broken only by a recessed window, an equally diagonal shaft of light cutting through it, painting the room in blue where is it otherwise monochrome. Beneath the wall, directly nestled into that gap is a bed, bathed in said light so that the tinge of colour swaddles it. Blue, light, cooled in the heated air. 

The moon is watching through the glass, gazing down on the figures moulded and shaped into something beautiful. It isn’t sure which is which or where one ends and the other begins, but it rather suspects that is the idea. 

On a small table beside this rickety bed is a stack of books. Dusty, dog eared poetry, stamped with a return date long since passed. It is the brown haired of the two that thumbs these daily, searching for a meaning, for the recognition of his own thoughts laid out in words from another’s. These volumes offer him no solace, there is no salvation to be found within. Beside them is a worn nub of graphite and wood, a well-used pencil sharpened down so that it sits perfectly in his hand. Any further use may make it too small to be comfortable, but still, he retains it until it has entirely run out of purpose. Hoping, despite himself, that he might meet the expectations set by those books.

In the corner of the room, propped up against what was once a chimney breast is a stack of canvases. They do not really belong here, their owner and creator not habitually residing in these walls. But they have made their way here, salvaged by the loft’s resident, insistent that they be preserved. They are the only source of colour in the room. Swathes of bright hues, streaked across what was once blank. They swirl, combine, mix together to create new colours dreamed up only by the winged fancies of the boy with the black hair. This boy still has paint flecked on his arms, tinting the tip of his earlobe as it is pulled between the other’s teeth. The taste cannot be palatable and yet, he does not seem to mind. 

There is creation in this room. As well as destruction. The small fridge and stove in one corner is mostly empty, barely used. They exist on little, except, it appears, each other. 

There are other things too, small trinkets of sentimental value, more than the room can really hold, it is comfortably cluttered, a reflection, perhaps, of its inhabitants. 

In the dead of night like this there is calm. An eerie silence punctuated with the soft sighs of lovers, ones wasting time they should spend sleeping with little remorse. Tomorrow will find them bleary-eyed as they stumble into their respective lectures, hot cups of caffeine hope clutched in their tired fists. The lingering memory of each other still fresh in their minds, making the dull and sluggish way they move through their days seem worth it.

Minutes, perhaps hours, before, the room had been empty. Expectant. Interrupted from it’s own pondering by the noisy arrival of these two boys. Red cheeked from the cold, fumbling with each other’s clothes. Hands pressed where they previously hadn’t been allowed, exploring all of the places they are now permitted. A revelation, one of them thinks, and makes a note of the word for later. The other notes the golden flecks in the other’s eyes for the millionth time and marvel at the shift of colour in the dim light up this close. He thinks he shall probably spend his life trying to recreate that exact hue. They come together finally, and this it where it starts.

The room is only a first step, though they do not know this yet. Beyond it stretches a city, and a few hundred miles away another one awaits them. There is still much work for them both before they reach it, and it will not all be smooth nights of love making in blue moonlight. Some of it might be the loud shock of red hot anger, the blinking green of jealousy and, for one more than the other, a sick yellow of doubt and fear. There is much suspended and expectant in this full spectrum of experience. A path sketched out, if not yet fully inked. 

There will be many words to this narrative. They will stutter, inarticulate and inefficient in their choices, talking around what they really mean for a while before getting to the point. There are not many synonyms for commitment, at least none with a definition they find appropriate enough for the burning connection they feel to each other. There is no superlative function of something already the purest thing they know. While they may never find it, they continue searching for it, and this is all that matters.

But here is where it begins. This single shaft of light breaking through the curtainless window, blanketing two figures finally figuring out what it is they mean to each other. The moon looks on stoic and silent, lending its light as an acknowledgement. This is special, it knows. And here is where it begins.


End file.
